


Don't ask me for that love again

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Community: spn-masquerade, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: Masquerade fill for this prompt:Sam/Dean, fear. Expanding on moments as late Season 13 where Sam flinches at Dean's anger: Sam's been the object of a disproportionate number of instances of physical and emotional violence from Dean and alt!Dean over the years, as well as noncon possession. Even with their relationship on a more even keel, most of this hasn't been addressed and would plausibly have ongoing effects. Show me Sam and Dean in a sexual relationship where Sam's will-to-trust doesn't always translate into trust. Can end in resolution or break-up, but nothing fluffy or easy.





	Don't ask me for that love again

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Faiz Ahmed Faiz/Agha Shahid Ali.

Sam’s never slept well without Dean.

These days, it isn’t easy to sleep well _with_ Dean.

He turns his back to Dean, playing happy to be the little spoon. Dean’s always happier as the big spoon anyway, always in protective mode, even when they’re naked together, especially when they are.

Sam doesn’t have the heart or the courage to tell Dean he’s afraid.

Sam’s always afraid. Afraid that Dean will figure it out, will end this thing between them that’s gone on for years. For centuries. (Literally, if you count the cumulative years they’ve both spent in Hell, and Sam’s always counting.) Afraid that Dean won’t understand. Afraid that his outsides will never match his insides, that his skin will always bear countless, indelible, invisible scars. His skin that gift-wraps him like a present for Dean, his skin that Dean loves to glide his lips over, his skin that never unravels as the paper over a badly-wrapped present should. His skin that fits badly now, smooth and taut where it should be torn and shredded, stretched as it is over a body that never forgets, memories embedded deep into his organs and bones.

He asks Dean to take him from behind, making it a game, like it’s a fantasy he wants to play out. Dean’s hands on his hips, Dean’s mouth on the blade of his shoulder, Dean’s teeth sinking tenderly into his flesh. It’s as though Dean’s the one in pieces rather than Sam. He can take Dean in pieces, in small increments of sensation.

“Sammy,” Dean says, mouth pressed to Sam’s skin, the word almost muffled. It sinks its way into Sam’s body through the thin layer of his skin, bares him to Dean in a way he’s never bared to anyone else. 

Sam pushes back with his hips, clenching tight around Dean. The pillow is soft between his teeth, his face hidden, his back arching high as Dean drives in deep.

“Fuck,” Dean says, his voice torn and ragged, and Sam wants to say something in return, wants to participate in this act. 

_Keep talking_ , Sam thinks. _Please keep talking. Please don’t stop._

Dean doesn’t stop.

 

—

 

He learns the art of seduction, well into his thirties, because of necessity.

When he sees Dean’s lips pressed into a thin line of anger when Dean’s on the phone, disgusted by the incompetence of some novice hunter he’s talking to, Sam sinks to his knees and mouths at the rough denim of Dean’s jeans, his eyes squeezed shut, until Dean’s fingers grip his hair. 

He doesn’t stop mouthing kisses into Dean’s clothed thigh until Dean’s fingers relax their grip and start caressing his hair instead, Dean’s calloused fingertips against the soft skin of Sam’s scalp. 

 

—

 

 _Don’t be angry_ , Sam thinks. _Please don’t be angry._

It’s been four years since Dean forced him to his knees, Death standing by and watching, since Dean took him down with his fists and Sam felt blood in his mouth from his big brother’s knuckles.

Dean still has those photographs displayed in his room.

 _Remember what it was to love_ , Sam remembers himself saying.

“You’re miles away,” Dean observes, his lips on Sam’s bare shoulder. They’re spoon-fucking, Dean behind Sam, rocking in and out, one leg over both of Sam’s, warm weight pinning Sam down. 

“Sorry,” Sam whispers back, his eyes on the photographs.

“Don’t be sorry.” Dean stops moving, his cock thick and hard inside Sam’s body, his mouth moving from Sam’s shoulder to his neck to his ear, a line of kisses pressed gently against Sam’s skin. “Be here.”

 

—

 

Sam finds a new game for them to play: Dean’s belt, doubled in half, slapping against his skin to the rhythm of Dean moving inside him.

Dean’s reluctant, at first. Sam can understand why. Dean almost never hurts him on purpose. The pain is a by-product of love, collateral damage caused by his well-intentioned brother.

He learns to come to the sound of Dean’s belt against his skin, a necessary lesson learned to convince Dean that he wants it. By the end, he does want it. The sound of his own cries, punched out of his mouth by Dean’s belt, by Dean’s hand wielding the belt, is a song that doesn’t need words. The words themselves are safely hidden in the crevice of Sam’s throat, his body singing with pain and pleasure.

 

—

 

“Tell me how to fix this,” Dean says. He sounds helpless, as though he’s the one who’s tied up. 

The ropes help Sam, anchoring him to the here and now. They fuel a fantasy of being taken against his will, but he knows his silences make Dean uncomfortable. Dean wants to hear him, wants Sam’s reassurance that everything is fine.

If only Sam could find the words.

 

—

 

They stop gradually. The sex is the first to go, and then the nakedness, as they find excuses to wear clothes in bed. When they start waking up on opposite sides of the bed, Dean stops inviting Sam to his bedroom. He starts knocking before he enters Sam’s room. His eyes, at their most brilliantly green when he’s inside Sam’s body, when he’s holding Sam so close that not even air is between them, begin to skitter away when they talk, looking at anything, anyone, besides Sam.

 _Find someone else_ , Sam thinks. _Please be happy. Please don’t let me have ruined it for you._

Dean doesn’t find someone else. They go on as they always have, brothers again, the loss of everything between them a solid wall that Sam learns to hide behind, playing again, pretending that this what was he wanted all along.

 

—

 

Sam knows the instant Dean begins to figure it out.

They’re driving down an endless mountain road when it happens: a loud sound like a gunshot, something undiscovered on the asphalt that bursts a tire and makes the car spin dangerously before Dean gets it under control. They skid to a precarious stop an inch from a wall of rock.

Dean swears loudly and pulls angrily at the knot of his tie. “Stupid fucking FBI suit.” He strips off his coat and tie, begins to roll up his shirt sleeves with furious, jerky movements, the muscles of his arms flexing as though he’s about to throw a punch.

“Why don’t you—” Dean looks over at Sam and stops mid-sentence. “Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at Dean’s hands. Anywhere but his face, which he knows will be twisted in an angry grimace. He waits for the taunt, for Dean to misunderstand the situation and mock him for doubting Dean’s driving skills, for being afraid that they’d crash because of a busted tire.

_Don’t be angry. Please don’t be angry._

“I’m not,” Dean says, confused, and Sam realizes, horrified, that he’s said the words aloud.

“Well, I kinda am,” Dean amends. “At whatever busted my tire, at this stupid heat, this stupid road that doesn’t have a gas station for miles. But I’m not angry at you, Sam. You know that, right?”

Sam wishes he could pretend the question was rhetorical, but Dean’s waiting for an answer. The silence is very un-Dean-like; he isn’t even drumming his fingertips (the rough ones that feel so gentle on Sam’s skin, that Sam’s skin hasn’t felt for weeks) on the steering wheel.

“Right?” Dean asks again, softer this time. His fingers curl into a loose fist that closes the distance between them and taps Sam lightly on his cheek.

“Right,” Sam says. He looks up into Dean’s face, their eyes meeting for the first time in what seems to be a very long time.

Dean’s knuckles move lightly against Sam’s jaw, fingertips tweaking Sam’s chin before his hand falls away. Sam misses his touch instantly, his skin starving for contact.

He gets out of the car to avoid the million unspoken questions in Dean’s eyes. 

They change the tire together, having performed the act so many times before that there’s no need for words. He lets his hair fall forward into his face as he bends over to hand Dean the necessary tools, studiously avoiding looking at how the muscles in Dean’s arms flex as he twists the wrench, sets the spare tire into place, hauls the damaged one into the trunk.

Job done, Dean straightens up and holds out his hand to Sam. Sam takes it and gets to his feet, looks down at his hand cradled in Dean’s. 

Dean leans in for a moment, presses a kiss, light as air, to the side of Sam’s head. Squeezes Sam’s fingers lightly before letting go.

“Come on,” he says, going around to the driver’s side and opening the door. “We still have a long way to go.” 

His gaze holds Sam’s until Sam nods, and Dean exhales audibly, as though he’d been holding his breath.

Sam gets into the passenger seat, and Dean reverses the car away from the mountainside.

Sam rolls down his window and lets the wind caress his hair as the car begins its slow uphill climb.


End file.
